


We Act as Strangers

by taelynhawker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, BAMF!John, Fake Names, Fake Suicides, Hand Jobs, M/M, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taelynhawker/pseuds/taelynhawker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish J. Baker was born two days ago. His hair is light brown, his eyes dark. He is long and lean and lanky. He does not cry; he is almost entirely silent, pensive, thoughtful. Hamish was born two days ago and now he boards a train to Paris. James Street comes into being, forming a coherent and fully realistic life for himself, in a short amount of time. The aftermath of the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Act as Strangers

 

 

Hamish J. Baker was born two days ago. His hair is light brown, his eyes dark. He is long and lean and lanky. He does not cry; in fact he is almost entirely silent, pensive, thoughtful.

Hamish was born two days ago and now he boards a train to Paris.

His jeans hang loose on his narrow hips, his dark blue t-shirt is at least one size too big while the green jacket is almost too tight on his narrow shoulders. He walks with heavy, lazy steps, feet encased in black work boots.

He spends the trip flirting with the pretty girl sitting across from him, telling her all about how he is going to Paris and paint naked women, maybe even some naked men. He explains that the satchel over his shoulder, which he refuses to let go of, contains all his art supplies. When she asks about a change of clothes, he says he travels light and perhaps he will paint his naked women and his naked men while naked himself. She laughs and he watches the curve of her lips and licks his own. He gives her his mobile number as they leave the train. She promises to call.

Hours later, seven miles from where he will be staying, he drops the mobile, tripping on his satchel and managing to crush the phone under his own foot. He curses, nearly in tears, and in a fit of pique throws it in the trash.

He checks into a cheap motel, locks the door to his room, and carefully places his bag at the side of the bed. He toes off his boots, shrugs off his coat, and flops onto the mattress. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

He was, after all, only born two days ago. No, he thinks, nearly three days ago now. Either way, he is very tired.

                                                                                                                  ***

Sherlock Holmes died two days ago.

John does not attend the funeral, which is arranged posthaste by his brother. He does, however, visit the gravesite a week later. He touches shaking fingers to the cold stone and speaks the words that have been choking him since the day he watched Sherlock fall from the roof.

He goes home, sits in his flat mate's chair, and does not move for the next nineteen hours. He is deep in thought. His left hand trembles, his leg cramps. He does not move. John is silent and still, as Sherlock used to be. Somehow it is more terrible to see this kind of stillness in the compact, slight army doctor than it ever was in the detective.

John comes back to himself slowly and quietly, taking in the room around him. With a slight nod of his head he stands, heading for his room. He takes out his army issue duffle and begins to quickly and efficiently pack his things. Not all of them. Only the things he will need most. When he is done he tucks his British Army issued, illegally kept, Sig Sauer L106A1 into the back of his jeans. It feels, as always, comfortable resting against the warm skin at the small of his back.

He takes a cab to his destination, gets through security with his firearm undetected solely because of who he is and who he used to be to Sherlock Holmes.

Anthea, to her ever growing credit, does not scream or even seem very surprised when he pulls the gun out and presses it to the worry lined forehead of the elder Holmes brother.

Mycroft, for his part, looks nearly bored.

"This is unnecessary, John," he says, voice clear and unwavering. "I know you blame me for my brother's death." There is a slight hitch as he says the word death. "But surely you realize killing me won't bring him back."

John laughs, bitter and hollow. They must think he's stupid, these brothers. These clever, wonderful, maddening men. The concern in Mycroft's face might be real now. John's not sure.

"Tell me where he is," John says, finally, when he stops laughing.

Understanding dawns in Mycroft's dark eyes.

"John. John, Jim Moriarty is quite dead. There is no revenge to be had, I am afraid."

John shakes his head and presses the gun more firmly into Mycroft's flesh.

"Tell me," he leans down and whispers into Mycroft's ear. "Tell me where your brother is. Now."

Mycroft jerks back and stares at John. John shakes his head in answer to a question Mycroft has not even opened his mouth to ask. "It doesn't matter. I know. Now tell me where."

Mycroft swallows, takes exactly one moment to get his equilibrium back during which he looks John over in an assessing manner, and finally says, "You can't go like that."

John nods. He'd expected as much. He lowers the gun, tucking it back into his jeans. "Then get me ready."

"It will take a while, a week at least."

John stares, unblinking. What is a week now compared to the week he spent believing the person he cared about most was dead?

After a moment Mycroft nods and gives Anthea careful and specific instructions. After she leaves, when it is just the two of them, Mycroft stands and looks out the window. He is quiet for a long time. John takes a seat in an overstuffed leather chair.

Mycroft looks back at him and asks the question he didn't get to earlier in this exchange. "How?"

John smiles, soft and small, eyes far away. "Sentiment," he says.

Mycroft makes a low huffing noise, but says nothing else until Anthea returns.

                                                                                                                          ***

In the light of day, Hamish Baker is not just a lover of art but also of the written word. Books, poems, newspapers, magazines. He reads them all, anything he can get his hands on. He doesn't remember half of what he reads, of course, it's all gone in the wisps and tides of his imagination by the time a new something has come along.

But every now and then something will catch his eye and swirl about in his mind until he finds something to distract himself.

Today the gossip magazines are blazing with variations of the same story- "Lover of fraudulent detective, Sherlock Holmes, found dead of apparent suicide." Oh, most of the headlines are short and snappy, coupled with picture of the detective and this John Watson together. Nothing incriminating, these photos, until you added the headline.

Hamish reads the words and his hand twitches, the left, very significantly. The twitch becomes a tremble and he sputters apologies to the barista when he spills his coffee all over the floor.

"Terrible, isn't it?" she asks, when she catches the magazine he's reading. "Poor bloke was probably just as fooled as the rest of us." She is not a native Parisian, obviously. Neither is she from London. But she _is_ British, and it is very comforting in that moment to hear the accent of his home.

"Yes. Terrible," he manages to grate out.

"Though I'm surprised they're still following the poor man at all. They seemed to lose interest once his detective was dead."

Hamish doesn't answer. He leaves a generous tip and flees.

By night, especially this night, the artist and reader of words known as Hamish Baker is something else entirely. He is a detective, a catcher of assassins, a murderer of very bad men, and now- because John Watson is dead and maybe a certain madman had been right when he'd said this- an avenging angel.

It becomes very hard to breathe in the light of day, but Hamish manages. He paints canvas after canvas with vicious angles and lines, like the wind rushing past a falling body. The canvas is covered in blues and whites until finally there is the last one, red and purple. Old blood spilled.

Hamish lives for the setting of the sun, the feel of metal in his grasp, and hot blood on his fingers. He woos necessary information out of men and women alike, sometimes without them ever realizing it.

Until finally, finally, he finds the man who holds the name he needs.

"I can't tell you, don't you get that? I'm dead either way!"

The man is of a height with Hamish, but much bulkier. He'd been slow and easy to unbalance and now he sits on the floor with his head in his hands wailing about the impossibilities of his current circumstances.

Hamish is bored. And wants his information. Hamish is sick of Paris, and trains, and painting. He wants to go home, even though there's nothing there for him any longer. Familiar sounds and smells might be enough. And he has his respects to pay.

"You'll die either way," Hamish says slowly, as if considering something. He puts his gun away, tucks it into the back of his jeans. It's cumbersome and uncomfortable but he's getting used to it. He slips his knife free from his boot instead. "Do you think, for some reason, that I would kill you faster? Make it less painful? I know what they'll do to you. But you, and they, have no idea what I'm willing to do." T

he man snarls, but there's fear in his eyes. A caged beast. Hamish smiles. He can deal with caged beasts. One exists within him every moment of every day.

"Moriarty is dead. You should just walk away while you can."

"James Moriarty left someone alive to take care of his... unfinished business. I already know this." Hamish smiles unpleasantly and runs the knife just under the thug's chin. "I just need a name."

"Fuck off. I'm not telling you anything."

Hamish is very good with a knife, very careful. The man's face is a rigid mask of blood by the time he's done. Maybe, Hamish thinks, he should feel something about that. But he doesn't. He presses the cool metal of the gun to the man's forehead.

"I'd thank you for your cooperation, but it wasn't really given. Was it?"

He pulls the trigger. In the end, it might _just_ have been a kinder death than Moriarty's men would have provided.

Hamish feels oddly unsatisfied with the thug's death. He isn't, after all, the one Hamish is really after. But he did have the name.

It's enough to live on, for now.

                                                                                                                             ***

James Street comes into being, forming a coherent and fully realistic life for himself, in an alarmingly short amount of time. So short that John wonders if Mycroft has not had this set up from the moment John refused his money and returned to 221B Baker Street. He wouldn't put it past the older Holmes.

It takes three weeks and four days. John thinks it should take longer to end one life and start another, but what does he know?

It starts with the hair. Easy enough. Anthea does it herself. Truthfully, John sees no one but Anthea and Mycroft the entire time it takes James Street to come into existence.

"The fewer people who know a thing, the fewer to tell it," Anthea says, before he even asks, and snaps the plastic gloves onto her hands.

When she's done she puts a towel over his head, rubs roughly, and whips it off. She gives a quick once over and nods.

"Mycroft recommended going ginger. I told him dark would suit you better."

John waits until she's gone to look in the bathroom mirror. It's funny, he thinks, how much difference hair color can make. He runs his fingers through the short dark hair and thinks of Sherlock.

Sherlock's dark curls thick with blood, fanned wetly across a colorless face. Lifeless eyes, staring up at the sky.

John barely makes it to the toilet.

Mycroft comes back sometime while John is sicking up, but he remains in the front room and waits for John to come out. John supposes there's some sort of social rule about not watching someone you aren't particularly close to vomit.

"He's not dead," he murmurs to himself, head half in the toilet.

He wretches again but nothing comes up. Even though he knows- Mycroft hasn't said the words, and he's starting to think that maybe he needs to hear it- that Sherlock isn't really dead he still can't forget what he saw. He hears Sherlock's voice in his ear, remembers how silent the world went as he watched him fall, and-

John stomach heaves again.

"He's not dead," he groans, slipping down onto the floor.

In the front room he hears Mycroft pacing. He brushes his teeth, runs his hands through his dark hair again. He looks ill, too tired and too pale, but at least his head is out of the toilet.

"You'll have a new wardrobe by the end of the week. You'd be a surprised how much a change of hair and fashion can do for hiding a man. But we'll work on your accent as well," Mycroft says as John finally enters the room.

"My accent?" John takes a seat, unsure of how long he can stay up on his own feet.

"Yes."

"Right. Of course."

"Scottish or Irish?" Mycroft asks, and John stares at him dumbly. "The accent. Which would you like to affect? We could go American, I suppose." His tone clearly implies that he feels an American accent would ruin this persona he is creating for John.

"Oh. Well, I…Irish is fine. Good." He licks his lower lip.

Mycroft nods and lifts his phone to his ear with an apologetic nod of his head.

"Yes. We'll go with O'Dowd. See that he's here by eight am sharp." A smile crosses Mycroft's face. "Thank you, my dear. You needn't wait for me." A long pause and Mycroft closes his eyes, another smile lifting his lips. "I shall owe you dinner on the way, then. Pick somewhere you've been dying to go." He slides the phone into his pocket and turns to John, studying him.

"I have to say, John. I'm a bit surprised. I thought you would accept the events as they'd played out and move on." He settles into one of the plush leather chairs, crossing his legs. John doesn't answer.

Sherlock had to have known John wouldn't let it go. A magic trick, Sherlock had said.

"Of course, I'm most greatly surprised by Sherlock. He's never shown this level of sentiment before. Granted, good PAs can be hard to find but-"

John snorts out a laugh. "You'd murder for Anthea, or whatever her name is today. You love her. She's not just your PA. No matter that you can't... don't want..." He swallows hard. "I'm not his bloody PA. And I'm not stupid. And he shouldn't have-"

"It was to protect you, as I'm sure you know. There was an assassin, Sebastian Moran. He was assigned to you, specifically, if the intelligence we've gathered is at all reliable, and I assure you it is." Mycroft's eyes are sharp on John's face. "He was to Moriarty what you are to Sherlock, I believe, after a fashion."

John frowns. There are a few too many parallels there for him to handle at the moment and all the hypothetical situations they create end with John murdering Moran in the bloodiest way possible. If he had the ability to get his hands on the man, right now, he'd-

"Do you need water, John? Tea? You look ill." Mycroft's polite offer interrupts John's murderous thoughts.

John shakes his head. He needs... Sherlock. But he isn't going to say that to Mycroft.

"Who else knows?"

"I'm quite certain this place is safer than any other I know, but I'll not chance the lives of those who have greatly helped my brother and I by saying them aloud. You understand, I'm sure?"

John glares. He does understand but he doesn't have to like it.

"The list is very, very short," Mycroft says, and John realizes it's meant to soothe him.

He licks his lip nervously and nods, not soothed at all.

They sit in silence for a long time. There isn't much to say, John is realizing, while waiting for one man to die and another to come to life in his place.

                                                                                                   ***

The evening of the day John Watson's funeral is held finds Hamish J Baker killing two men in Fontainebleau. He kills them slowly. He needs answers and, after all, dead men tell no tales.

He stays in Fontainebleau for three weeks, going to wine tastings and painting in gardens. Then he returns to Paris and paints the Eiffel Tower for fourteen straight hours. His hand cramps, and he mixes the wrong paints. The last canvas looks twisted and sinister, the color of muddied blood. It's fitting, he thinks, but destroys the canvas. If he's not careful what he puts down in paint then who knows what someone could find out about him.

The next day Hamish drinks cafe au lait and eats a baguette. He searches the gossip sites for pictures of John Watson's funeral. It's old news now, both the doctor and his famous detective are dead and not likely to do anything scandalous, but he finds a mention of it and a couple of pictures.

One picture is of two women and two men. The site lists them as Harriet Watson, Martha Hudson, DI Greg Lestrade, and Mycroft Holmes.

The two men hold umbrellas over the women's heads, for all the good it does. The day looks wet and gloomy. The women look heartbroken, the men stoic.

He clicks off the page and begins looking up a new hostel to stay in.

"That's a good one," someone says in an Irish accent that clearly places him from somewhere urban, more than likely Dublin, though it could be anywhere from Drogheda in the north to Waterford in the south.

Hamish turns, twisting his long torso uncomfortably to get a good look.

"What was that?"

"I was saying, that hostel you've got up? It's a good one. Or it was ten years ago, which I suppose shows my age, doesn't it?" The man smiles, a neat and charming smile.

Thin but well-shaped lips pull back to reveal even, white teeth. He's well dressed, Hamish notes, very well dressed. In a dark three piece suite, with a dark fedora pulled down his forehead with a feather tucked into it. The feather is grey and blue and green, all the colors of the angry ocean. Hamish finds himself staring for longer than is polite.

The man's smile widens. "Like the hat? I've always had a love for hats."

"It's... yes... it's lovely." Sunglasses obscure the man's eyes, and Hamish suddenly wishes, quite violently, that the man would remove them.

"Good luck to you, finding a place." The Irishman taps the front of his hat and nods his head.

Hamish wants very badly for him to stay. There is something about this man, something he knows.

But the man is getting up, gathering his trash. Every movement is rolling and lazy. Until he stands. Hamish watches carefully. The man's gait seems perfectly balanced like all the rest of him.

But then, just for two steps and now more, there seems to be a limp. Then it's gone, the old and comfortable walk returning. Hamish finds himself frozen and staring, unable to move. And then the Irishman has left.

Hamish packs his things in a rush and heads back to his current hostel. He's not sure he should stay in Paris any longer.

                                                                                                                           ***

"Your technique is exquisite. But I think it's lacking something. Feeling, maybe. Yes. That's it. It's missing emotion." The voice behind him is deep and gravelly, yet vaguely familiar.

Hamish turns to look up, into the sun, towards the man standing over him. The painting on his easel at the moment is of a particular curve of the fountain he sits in front of. It is almost an exact replica. Hamish frowns.

"Well... thank you... for the input, I suppose?" he says carefully. He doesn't want to cause offense.

The man pulls over a green metal chair and sits heavily. He wears a newly pressed suit of high quality, very dark blue with a crisp light blue shirt beneath. A black vest buttoned beneath the suit coat brings sharp attention to his compact form. Expensive black leather shoes- definitely Italian- shine in the sunlight. The Irishman isn't wearing a hat today and his hair is artfully mussed, a rich, dark brown. When he removes his sunglasses and meets Hamish's gaze his eyes seem to be more than one shade of blue at once.

Hamish blinks once, and then twice, and then a third time. He looks back at the painting. "I guess it is... a bit remote. I'm still working on the... the emotion bit. Some artists they... they do it so naturally that you almost assume they only see the world through their emotions. It seems easy. For them."

The man leans closer, close enough that Hamish feels breath puff across his cheek. Hamish looks out of the corner of his eye but the man's gaze is firmly on the painting.

"I think you'd find that even the most talented artist has trouble with putting emotions into a painting. After all, what if he puts too much of himself into it? What if he's blinded by the emotion he feels for what he's painting? So many ways it could all go sideways."

Hamish looks at the man sharply. He is so close to those neat, perfect lips. He could kiss this stranger, this art critic he's acquired, if he so desired.

"Dinner?" the man asks, with a charming half smile.

Hamish feels a tightening in his stomach, both welcome and unwelcome.

"Starving," Hamish answers. But he hesitates to get up. He is here for a reason. "Might I know the name of my personal art critic first?" Hamish asks, stalling to give himself time.

"James Street."

"Hamish Baker." Because it seems polite.

James hums softly in what sounds like approval. "Come on then, Hamish. You look like you could use a bite."

"Yes, of course. Just-"

James leans in and presses his lips right against Hamish's ear. "You're looking for the man on the left. I can even tell you where he's rooming and what sort of weapon he's got tucked into his boot. The other two aren't even part of this. Now come have dinner with me."

Hamish's jaw drops in shock. He closes it quickly. "Alright, then. Yes. Let's do that."

James helps him pack his things and then carries them for him. He keeps a hand at the small of Hamish's back, and Hamish finds he does not mind this gentle point of contact.

He doesn't mind it at all.

                                                                                                                                   ***

It's been a long time since John has felt this in control of his life. Sherlock brought him back to life after he was invalided home, there's no point in denying that. He's grateful for it. But Sherlock also took a great deal of control from John, which was fine at the time.

Then Sherlock died and John took the reins for himself.

Now he stares down at _Hamish_ fucking _Baker_ on the floor beneath him. There's blood on his cheek where the skin split and John does feel a bit guilty about that, no matter how much the man deserved the hit.

Hamish is staring at him in shock. His dark eyes are unfathomable, but the familiar lines of his face are easy enough for John to read.

"Take those out," he snarls, irrationally furious that he can't see Sherlock's real eye color. The color of wild storms and clouds and beakers of acid and- "Now. Damn it. I can't stand looking at them."

Sherlock nods, standing carefully. "You don't want to hit me one more time?" One perfect eyebrow arches.

John growls, low in his throat. "Don't tempt me." "

Of course," the other man's voice is smooth and cool, all traces of Hamish gone. "You will give me a moment?" He gestures towards the bathroom.

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere, you can bet on that."

Sherlock's lips lift in a slight smirk.

He is gone for eight minutes and it is too long for John. He's pacing the length of the room by the time Sherlock opens the door. He regards John cautiously, eyes a familiar pale blue-grey again. John breathes, desperate gulps of air, as if he hasn't drawn a single breath in the last five weeks. Since Sherlock fell off the roof of Saint Bart's.

Sherlock is at his side, long and delicate hands grabbing John's shoulders and pulling him in. A sob wrenches its way out of John's throat and he is surprised by the force of it. After all, once he'd gotten past the first twenty-four hours he'd realized that Sherlock couldn't possibly be dead. And he'd known, hadn't he, that Sherlock was out there somewhere. Very much alive, and being as clever as he'd ever been.

So John isn't sure why he claws at Sherlock's back until his hands are fisted in the smooth fabric of his t-shirt. Sherlock lowers them to the bed in careful increments until they are sitting side by side and John is burying his face in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock holds him awkwardly.

"It was to keep you safe," he says finally, voice very quiet.

"I don't care. You can't just- -you can't. Never again. _You need me_." John rasps out.

"I do," Sherlock agrees and nudges his face against John's until he can press his lips to John's.

John's breath catches in his throat. The entire world stops. There is nothing but this, these points of contact. Sherlock's hands grasping his face, fingertips just edging into his hair, soft, plush lips pressing soft and sure on his own. The smell of him, the coolness of his skin against John's flushed body.

John allows Sherlock to push him down and back until they are stretched across the bed, Sherlock draped over John's side, kissing his face, his neck, anything he can reach. John's got his hands tangled in Sherlock's hair, shorter now, but still riotously curled and silken soft.

"How?" Sherlock whispers. "How did you know? How did you find me?"

John pulls back and looks at Sherlock's face. Studies the pale skin that is already darkening with the sun he's been taking in. How can one man be so beautiful to start and then somehow become even more so?

"John," Sherlock says, with the smallest of smirks because he knows, of course he knows, where John's mind had drifted off to. And how to explain it in a way Sherlock would understand?

"Sentiment," he tries. It worked with Mycroft after all. But Sherlock frowns.

John sighs. "I just... after you fell I thought. Well. I believed it. The magic trick. And then for a week I just couldn't... I didn't. I paid a visit to your grave and when I went back to Baker Street I sat in your chair and I... tried to figure it all out. And things, I don't know, slipped into place. I knew there was no way you were a fake. And if you weren't a fake why would you kill yourself? To protect someone? That's sentimental for you. But... you aren't as heartless as you believe yourself to be. So, yes. To protect someone. But you wouldn't let Moriarty win. You're too clever and too full of yourself for that. So it had to be a trick. And the last person anyone would think you'd actually turn to for help would be your brother. So I went to Mycroft."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and, yes, John knows that Sherlock has talked to Mycroft recently, and he knows that Mycroft mentioned no word of John's impending arrival.

"And so this James Street... he's Mycroft's making?" Sherlock sounds... jealous.

"Moriarty's men would be looking for John Watson. I couldn't be him anymore."

Sherlock is silent for so long John begins to wonder if he really is jealous. Then he straddles John's thighs and looks down at him.

"He put you in these clothes." One long finger touches the sleeve where it's rolled up John's forearm.

"He didn't physically dress me in them if that's what you're asking," John sputters. Because goddamnit, he's the one who's supposed to be angry. Sherlock _died_ on him.

"He picked them out. Didn't have to measure you, did he? He's always gone after what's mine; I should have known you'd be no different. If I hadn't had to fake my own death who knows how soon he might have-"

"Sherlock!"

"John!" Sherlock hisses, mocking.

John glares. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to be indignant. You left me."

Sherlock waves a hand. "I've already explained why." He tilts his head, looking down at John again. "Take them off."

John stares at him. "You're on top of me, even if I wanted to take my clothes off I can't."

Sherlock very purposefully removes himself from John's lap. Which reveals both of their states in rather alarming clarity. Honestly, if you'd asked John just a couple of months ago he'd have told you Sherlock had no interest in sex of any kind. He'd thought he was alone in his desires. Evidence clearly shows this to be untrue.

Sherlock looks pained to be so far away, and honestly John's state is not entirely dissimilar. But he doesn't start moving until Sherlock does, stripping off his t-shirt to reveal the still pale chest, the finely defined muscles, the nearly concave curve of his stomach.

John lets the fine coat fall the floor, then toes off his very expensive shoes. Sherlock is naked by the time he gets that far, and he's completely distracted. Sherlock is indifferent to his own nudity, stalking over to John and pulling impatiently at his vest, nearly popping buttons in his hurry to get his shirt off.

"I didn't know," John says, stepping out of his trousers.

Sherlock is on his knees, unbuckling John's belt. His head tilts forward to rest against John's thigh. John's heart is racing. He can't stop staring down at Sherlock.

"Of course you didn't. You're an idiot," Sherlock mutters.

He mouths the hot, hard line of John's cock through his pants.

"Jesus," John moans out, breath stuttering.

"Get on the bed, John." Sherlock stands and John finds himself moving back towards the bed until his knees hit and he sits down hard. "I never have before, you know. Moriarty was right to call me the Virgin. And Mycroft when he said sex shouldn't alarm me. Not that it alarmed me. I simply had no desire for it. It seemed tedious."

He crawls over John's body until they are sprawled across the bed. He grasps John's wrists and pushes them above his head, out of the way. He kisses each pulse point with care and precision.

"Bodies are transport," John says breathlessly.

Sherlock hums against his skin, kissing down one arm until he reaches the shoulder, John's collarbone, his neck. He presses his nose there and then sets to work leaving a love bite. John squirms, wanting to touch, but Sherlock's still got his wrists trapped. He could free himself, easily, but he doesn't want this to turn into that. A fight. He likes the slowness of Sherlock's touches. As if John were a delicate and temperamental experiment.

"Until you. Yes. Bodies were transport, but then there was you. With your limp and the scar on your shoulder, the very light strands of hair at your temple." Sherlock sighs gently, the hot air brushing over John's neck. "I wanted to touch, but it seemed I shouldn't. So I observed."

His hands leave John's wrists, crawl down his sides and around his hips. John's so hard he's leaking. He wants those long fingers around his cock, in his ass. Anywhere, everywhere. But he can't ask. He won't ask. John is content to let Sherlock set the pace.

"You're touching now," John says.

Sherlock lifts his head and grins before kissing him. Slow and thorough, investigating. Checking the conclusions he's made. John opens his mouth for him, lets him in.

Sherlock pulls back and there's a flush staining his impossible cheekbones. "I am. You don't mind." Not a question. It's obvious John doesn't mind. "I want to touch your cock now. And possibly mine with it. You won't mind that, either." John barks out a desperate laugh.

"I promise I won't. We'll have to work on your sex talk, though." Sherlock, in the process of pulling John's cock out of his pants, raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, I think you like my sex talk just fine." John's breath hitches as Sherlock wraps those long, lovely fingers around him.

"I like all of you just fine."

Sherlock's hand is hot and strong and perfect. John finds himself thrusting up into the tight circle of his fist, his precome smoothing the strokes. Sherlock is watching him intently, but John feels the roll of his hips, can feel his hot cock occasionally rubbing against John's.

"Both of us. Oh, fuck. God, Sherlock. Both of us. Your cock, too. Please."

Sherlock's breath hisses through his teeth. "I want to see you."

"Then watch me. You can watch me as often as you like. I need to feel you. Fuck, you died on me. Touch yourself."

A soft, hurt sound leaves Sherlock's throat, and then John's moaning and thrashing because that's Sherlock's cock caught in the tight grip of Sherlock's hands. And god, that. That is exactly what he needed. Sherlock jerks them twice, three times, and then John's coming. So hard there are spots in his vision and he's leaving vicious scratches down Sherlock's arms. Sherlock makes a confused, helpless groan. His hand tightens on their cocks and then he's coming as well.

John lifts his head, crashes their lips together. Sherlock keeps making those noises, broken and hurt and beautiful and god- is this his first orgasm? Hasn't he touched himself?

Sherlock collapses onto John's chest, hand trapped between them and still around their softening cocks. He's shaking, shoving his face into John's chest as if he can bury himself there. John wraps his arms around him and rolls them to the side, pulling Sherlock into him as tightly as he can.

"It's okay. It's fine. Sherlock, I've got you." He rubs his hands up and down the bumps of his spine. He's so thin. John had finally got that sorted out and in five weeks he's undone it all. "I'm still furious. But I'm right here. I love you so much. You must know that."

"Of course you do, I'm extraordinary," comes the muffled response against his skin. "You know that I... as well…that you are... you know."

John sighs and kisses the side of Sherlock's head. "I do."

"You'll come with me to take down Moran?"

John tightens his grip on Sherlock at the name.

"I plan on doing nothing else."

"John."

He sounds so tired. So lost. So unlike the Sherlock John has known and yet familiar.

"It's alright. Sleep for a while."

They're quiet for a long time until Sherlock's breathing slows and evens out and his grip on John loosens. John has so rarely seen Sherlock sleep. He pulls a blanket over them both, wraps himself more firmly around Sherlock, and keeps a watchful eye on the door.

No one, not even Sherlock, is ever taking Sherlock from him again.


End file.
